


Letters to the Broken

by kameo_chan



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nobody Dies, Not sure if AU or Alternative Canon Interpretation, Sappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kameo_chan/pseuds/kameo_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words he writes down are his own, even if the things they speak of sometimes aren’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters to the Broken

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of unrepentant flangst I wrote about a year ago and have only gotten round to posting now. Also, probably singularly the most clichéd title for a fanwork I’ve ever come up with. Unbeta'd and unpolished.

It begins as a prank in Oto. Fai scribbles down, _You have the prettiest eyes_ , on a throwaway scrap of paper and secrets it in the breast pocket of Kurogane’s dress shirt, the one Fai knows is just to the left of his heart. It’s unlikely he’ll even find it, and Fai really has no excuse for doing it. He supposes the impetus for it lies in the fact that he’s constantly seeking out new ways in which to push the boundaries between them.

Fai has never seen anyone capable of such raw, voluminous cantankerousness as Kurogane. It’s something that simply never existed before. His has been a life fraught with fear and detestation and the cold, unyielding realization of the futility of trying to fight fate. Kurogane’s whip-crack irritability is a bright counterpoint, a means of reprieve from the half-truths and whole lies he has come to shroud himself in over the long, solitary course of his life. 

So he hides the note; the slanting lines of High Celesian unfathomable to anyone currently alive save himself and the ghosts of his past who lie in dreamless slumber, and goes about his business as normal. 

It’s a day later that Kurogane comes tramping in, sword slung over his shoulder and the sound of his _geta_ clack-clack-clacking out a heavy staccato beat on the café’s floor. 

“Welcome back, Kuro-woof!” he greets genially, giving his companion a neat little bow. “Would you like something to drink?” 

Kurogane doesn’t answer for the longest time; merely eyes him beadily before digging into the custom-tailored pocket he kept all his little bits and bobs in. Sakura-chan had sewn it into his _hakama_ as a favour for teaching her how to fish during one of their rare off-days. “If this is your idea of a joke, you need to rapidly revise your opinion on what humour is,” he says tersely, bringing out the note. It’s crumpled around the edges a bit and looks as though it might have been balled up and then smoothed out again several times over. 

Fai lets a familiar grin steal over his features, the same one he’d spent ages crafting into a perfect mask of deflection back on Celes. “Whatever do you mean, Kuro-pyon?” 

“The next time you want to say something to me, say it in person,” Kurogane grits out, before storming off to his bedroom on the second floor. Fai pretends not to notice that he stuffs the note back into his pocket as he goes. 

*** 

In Shara, he writes Kurogane jokes. Everything, from amusing little anecdotes to little private in-jokes he’d always shared with Ashura-ou to the long-winded gags whose punch lines took forever to reach that Sorata-san had shared with him in the Hanshin republic. 

Kurogane ignores them for the most part, although Fai will sometimes find small bits of shredded paper strewn conspicuously about his futon before they bed down for the night. 

It’s nearly as much fun trying to get him to respond to them as it is to try and elicit one of Kurogane’s infamous verbal flare ups. 

The only downside to it, he finds, is that the considering looks Kurogane casts him when he’s not busy being incensed about something or the other grow in both length and duration with each word he puts down on paper.

***

In Yama, Fai plays the role of a simple-minded mute, which isn’t entirely inaccurate on closer inspection. He might as well be one for all the good it does him. The language of the people here is similar to that of Kurogane’s world, if harsher and not quite as clipped, but without Mokona nearby to serve as their de facto translator, it’s a moot point either way. At least the men in Yasha-ou’s camp do not question his silences; unlike Kurogane who seems to take personal affront whenever he so much as hazards a smile in his direction. 

In the evenings, they wait until the other men have all gone to their cots before attempting to converse – unsuccessfully, of course – with one another. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they converse _at_ one another. Kurogane’s face is harsh and angled in the light cast by the fire-pit, but his words are soft and measured and Fai wonders at this side of him; that he is capable of such quiet utterances that linger in the still night air like a soft summer rain. 

And in turn, he shares with Kurogane bits and pieces of himself in Valerian. An obsolete language to detail his darkest fears and deepest secrets; Fai cannot think of anything more apt. Kurogane listens to it all, eyes curious and penetrating, seeming like they might bore straight through to the core of him if Fai gives him the slightest opportunity. 

Fai does not laugh, or prod, or poke in Yama. He smiles, however and all that does is net him reproachful undertones and weighing, contemplative stares. So he takes to writing again. 

It’s far more difficult to procure stationery in Yama than it had been elsewhere during their travels. For one, only the higher ranking officers seem versed in the use of letters, and secondly, supplies are unusually hard won and difficult to come by. But with each passing battle, Kurogane’s mettle and battle prowess prove to be their greatest allies, and Fai soon finds himself a standard-bearer of Yasha-ou’s army, and kitted out with writing implements besides. 

He has to make do with brittle parchment and ink and fine-tipped horse-hair brushes here. To this end, Kurogane proves surprisingly helpful in teaching him the correct way in which to use all three, and soon enough he masters the technique of flicking his wrist in order to create elegant, flowing lines of script without sending little drops of ink flying every which way. 

The calligraphy he practices steadily turn into confessions; small private glimpses of his life afforded to a man who cannot and probably does not want to understand him. He doesn’t know why he shares these innermost thoughts with Kurogane here like this, only that he does and that he sometimes feels a little better for it. 

He inks things like, _when I was a child, I killed my brother_ ; and, _don’t tell anyone, but I’m still a virgin_. He writes whole soliloquies dedicated to detailing his hatred of raw fish and single words of shame and loathing that leave him tight-chested and breathless late at night long after Kurogane has doused the candles in their shared tent and gone to sleep. 

He leaves the notes everywhere. Entire scrolls go into Kurogane’s saddlebags whenever he rides off to join the other officers on a hunt. Neatly guillotined little squares are left beside his pillow on the mornings when Fai has to fetch their morning rations. Single sheaves of parchment are snuck into his cuirass before battle. All of them carrying hints and insights to a past Fai would never willingly impart or admit to otherwise. 

Fai does not stop writing the dispatches even after Syaoran-kun, Sakura-chan and Mokona arrive in Shura. 

Kurogane, for his part, keeps each and every one until the illusion of the world crumbles and they are returned, safe and whole and infinitely more broken, to Shara. 

*** 

Piffle has no paper, save to use as hard copy in legal documentation in the oldest of archives. Everything is displayed on tiny devices that fit into the palm of one’s hand, and require the use of a keyboard to type in letters and symbols. 

Since there are no equivalents for the languages Fai normally pens his thoughts down in, he sets aside his newfound hobby for the time being. Kurogane doesn’t comment on the sudden lack of missives, but it’s while he’s busy doing the laundry one day after they’d spent all morning crawling around in grease and motor oil that Fai finds the original he’d written way back in Oto stuffed into the back pocket of Kurogane’s coverall. 

It’s then, and only then, that Fai realizes he might have encountered a slight problem.

***

Lecourt is perhaps the most dangerous place for him to continue his writing. The language here is closer to that of Clow in structure, but the written word is highly reminiscent of Standard Celesian, which is what he’s taken to writing in these days. 

Fai has never been one to sidestep any risk, however, and so he improvises. He adapts his script to a pidgin variant of High Celesian, which seems safe enough, and starts up again as soon as he can lay his hands on quill and paper.

The words he writes down now are cautious and questioning, and he spends hours considering the meaning behind them each time he starts a new memo. Instead of sporadic confessions they become an application in self-analysis, a way of indirectly confronting all the very worst suspicions he has come to carry with him of late. 

_Why are you still trying to ferret out my weaknesses?_

_Would you still bother with me if you knew the truth?_

_Am I really worth all the attention you pay me?_

They seem melancholy and despairing even to his eyes, and invariably he ends up balling each sheet of pressed paper he scribbles on and tossing it into a magical wastebasket that promptly proceeds to shred every page to insignificant little bits of pulp and fibre. 

In the end, there is only one he manages to write out in full and it takes him the better part of half a day to gather up the nerve to leave it on the dresser in Kurogane’s room while the other man is out and about with the children and Mokona. 

It simply reads, _What am I to you?_

*** 

Like with everything else in this world, there are no notes in Tokyo. 

There is only anger – the brilliant essence of it twisting gut-deep and taking root; leaving him a seething mess of burrowing doubt and irrational fear. 

All Kurogane does is watch him with arms folded across the broad expanse of his chest and eyes that betray nothing. 

*** 

The following worlds are much like Tokyo in their absence of anything approaching normalcy. 

Kurogane falls silent in the interim; remaining close-mouthed and tight-lipped unless necessity compels him to speak. Fai feigns ignorance at everything and watches as their group crumbles apart from the inside out. 

He takes to confiding in Sakura-chan. 

It’s not like writing silly little notes at all. 

*** 

He commits a single sentence to paper in Infinity. 

_Things would’ve been so much easier if I could have hated you instead._

He burns the note immediately after writing it, and lets the ashes scatter on the wind. 

*** 

In Celes, Fai comes to understand the meaning of true and utter despair. It isn’t until Kurogane’s left arms sails past his face in a pinkish spray of blood and marrow and bone chip, however, that he also comes to realize that there are things in this world he fears far more than confronting his past. 

Kurogane lying pale and trembling in his arms, bleeding out all over the thick, green-dyed wool of his winter coat as they hurtle blindly into the next world is one of them. 

*** 

“They’re called _ema_ ,” Tomoyo says, reaching out a delicate, slender hand to caress the bamboo lathes attached to the post near the shrine wall. Her voice is warm and fond, gravely rich in its formality and politeness. “People who seek to change their fortunes write wishes or prayers on them, and offer them up to the gods in the hope of changing their fate.” 

“Where I came from, fortune was always thought to be predetermined by birth,” Fai replies with a rueful smile. “Growing up, all I knew of fortune was that it was something that belonged to people other than me.”

“Well perhaps you should seek out a new one then,” Tomoyo suggests gently. “Since you are no longer bound to the past, isn’t it time to look to the future?” 

“I wonder,” Fai says with a shrug, offering her another sheepish smile. This one however, though small and haggard, is far more genuine in its intent. 

“Will you come along to visit him? From what the healers have told me, they expect him to regain consciousness sometime within the next few hours.” Fai gives her a sidelong glance from beneath the curtain of his bangs, and Tomoyo reaches out; takes his hand in hers and squeezes it tightly. “Please?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Fay whispers truthfully, allowing her to twine their fingers together. 

“Whatever comes to mind,” Tomoyo answers, leaning forward on her tiptoes to press a cool kiss to his forehead. “You have come this far and through so much together. Won’t you see him through this last bit as well?” 

“But will he let me?” Fai wonders aloud, ducking his head to avoid meeting Tomoyo’s eyes. What would she see reflected in his? Fear? Longing? He isn’t entirely certain beyond the fact that he isn’t quite ready just yet to acknowledge this tenuous, fragile and nameless thing that has been building between the two of them since their seclusion in Yama. 

He forgets however, that he isn’t the only one possessed of a shrewd and cunningly perceptive intellect sometimes. Tomoyo’s smile is kind and radiant and sharper than a knife edge when she tilts his chin up to lay all his guilt-ridden confidences bare. 

“Kurogane does not offer up his trust easily. He never has and never will. It is a gift he chooses to offer to those he cherishes. And yet he has given it to you; unquestioningly so. Now, it is up to you to decide what you shall give him in return,” she tells him, and the truth behind her words hit him like the knell of a firework going off. 

“If you wish for something, you have to believe in it with all the strength your heart can muster. That is the only way we can ever hope to change what Fate has designed for us, Yuui.” 

And with that she gives his hand one last reassuring squeeze before making her way back to the castle proper again, and Fai is left contemplating the ink pot and lathes standing on an altar off to one side. In the end, he writes down only a single rune of Archaic Celesian, before tying the _ema_ to the post. 

Printed on it in blocky, angular lines is the ancient symbol for enduring devotion. 

*** 

They battle together like a single entity, and when Kurogane takes a hit, Fai feels it reverberate down his spine like a muted echo. Fei Wang is within their grasp, and with each furious strike and blow, they mete out vengeance for all he has taken from them. 

They fight to avenge the dead they had to leave behind; to protect the uncertain future that lies before them. But above all else, they fight for the sake of these damaged children they have come so dearly and desperately to think of as their own, as fiercely as any parent would.

They fight in perfect unison, and for the first time in years, neither of them feels the agonizing weight of guilt or regret. 

*** 

Fai wakes up in Clow to the early light of dawn filtering through half-drawn blinds. His mouth tastes of a nauseating mixture somewhere between week-old vomit and spoilt food, and his head is cotton-thick with the residual effect of all the drink he’d imbibed the night before. There’s one thing to be said for desert civilizations, and that’s that they know how to distil cactus juice into potently debilitating alcohol.

It therefore takes him a while to determine the cause of the crinkling sound emanating from his left cheek; but when he finally does, he stares at the small, torn-off corner of vellum in vexed silence for far longer than is probably necessary. 

_There’s apple pie for breakfast if the meat bun hasn’t consumed the entire pantry by the time you finally wake up. Also, the priest left you some milk of poppy for your head. It’s on the kitchen table. You’re lucky I’m feeling magnanimous today._ It’s written in surprisingly passable Standard Celesian, even if the letters slant awkwardly in some places and the accents are placed helter-skelter with little to no regard for phonetic accuracy. 

Beneath the first message; written in neat, compact Nihongo, is another line of script. 

_I’ll be waiting by the palace orchard. Come find me when you’re ready._

Fai smiles at the memo, sleep-drunk and happy, and then reaches over to the chair where his new travelling cloak is hanging. The note goes into the concealed pocket Princess Sakura had sewn into the left-hand side of the cloak’s lining. It’s the one which, if he were to slide the cloak over his shoulders and fasten every last cusp and buckle, would lie directly over his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose this can be read as either canon-compliant or AU, depending on preference. I also have no idea how the ending managed to come out sounding so damn sappy, despite the fact that it's rather more of a gen!fic than I originally meant for it to be. Lastly, feel free to point out any niggles - concrit is always appreciated!


End file.
